


Tattoo Artists Verse

by alilactree



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Tattoo Artist Blaine, Tattoo Artist Kurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alilactree/pseuds/alilactree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine are both tattoo artists, they meet and fall in love working at the same shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fly

“And this is my station, aka where the magic happens.”

Kurt rolls his eyes and erases a few lines of the sketch he’s been working on; a bit of a twist on the classic heart.

“Here’s where you’ll be, make yourself at home. Oh, and that’s Kurt. He’s prickly as hell but unfortunately he’s also crazy talented so we deal.”

Kurt’s pencil scratches over the thin paper, adding shadow and detail, not even looking up to say, “Don’t you have a tribal armband or butterfly tramp stamp to work on, Puckerman?”

Puck scoffs but walks away, and Kurt catches a gesture in his direction seeming to indicate a see what I mean? message to whoever is still standing rather annoyingly just at the edge of Kurt’s vision.

“Hello,” Kurt says with a bit of a put-upon sigh. He’d really been hoping to finish up and head home for the night before someone inevitably came in just as they tried to close wanting a complicated back piece or taking an hour to decide on a flash design. 

“Hey, I’m Blaine.”

Kurt gives the guy a once over, he’s kind of small, but pleasantly so, with both arms covered in ink, a few piercings. He’s got a nice face, too, sort of classically handsome. Really he’d be pretty hot if wasn’t for the too-tight t-shirt and ratty jeans and that asinine beanie covering his hair. Not worth Kurt’s time, really. These guys never are.

He focuses back on his drawing, hears Blaine mutter okay then, to himself before he moves away to start arranging his stuff; pulling out supplies and organizing them on the workstation. Kurt is almost finished, just the last few details that he’s probably over-thinking, like usual, when he feels Blaine watching him, turned in his stool to face Kurt’s station.

“Can I help you?”

Blaine tilts his head back and forth. “Maybe.” Kurt sets his pencil down and fixes Blaine with a glare. He is really not in the mood. But Blaine holds his hands up and glances over at Puck who is engrossed in something on the computer; paperwork, Kurt hopes, but mostly likely solitaire.

“I just thought we could get to know each other a little. I mean, we will be working together for a few months.” Blaine says.

“Pass.”

Kurt packs his pencils away, tapes the stencil up to the wall above his workstation so it’s ready to go for his first client tomorrow, and starts gathering his things to leave.

“Oh come on. I’m not so bad. Nice, even.”

“I just like to keep to myself. It’s nothing personal.” Kurt stands, watches Blaine subtly gaze down his body and finds himself swallowing thickly at the implication. “I know how you are, your type. Breeze into town like you own the place, cocky and vain and selfish. No offense.”

Blaine barks a laugh, head thrown back to reveal the line of his throat, and Kurt has to swallow again. “Wow, none taken.” He leans back, picks up his tattoo gun and buzzes it a few times in the air. “I like you, Kurt. You’re very…honest.”

Kurt shrugs, feels a smile tug his lips despite himself. “I do try.”

Blaine presses his gun again, bzzz, bzzzz. He looks at Kurt’s body more deliberately, catching Kurt’s eye and actually winking, and wow he’s even worse than Kurt thought.

“Let me ink you,” he says.

“What? No way. I haven’t even seen your portfolio. You probably suck. Puck hired you, after all.”

Puck protests loudly from the front of the shop, but Blaine just smirks and hums to himself. “Oh, I see. You’re one of those.”

Kurt knows he shouldn’t take the bait, he knows, but he can’t help it and asks, “One of what?”

“Tattoo artist who’s afraid of getting any work done on themselves,” Blaine replies mildly, turning his stool away and pushing off with his feet to skid over to the table in front of his station.

“You’re insane.” Kurt gestures to the art along his left arm, an entire sleeve covering it, Puck’s handiwork, it took forever and some days still doesn’t feel finished.

“Come on, just a little one. It won’t hurt. Much.”

Kurt takes a slow, cleansing breath through his nose. He doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone. He can have as much or as little ink as he wants, it doesn’t mean a thing. He moved to the New York with nothing but a suitcase and his little pack of tattooing supplies. He had no job lined up, knew no one, and in a year has become one of the most in-demand artists in the city. 

He has nothing to prove. He also has no idea why Blaine is getting under his skin like this. “Fine.”

Blaine grins triumphantly and gestures to the table before turning away to get set up. Kurt stretches out on his back, hands folded over his stomach and legs crossed at the ankle. He’s beginning to realize that Blaine is not the insane one here. He waits as Blaine draws something up, snaps on gloves and turns back with alcohol wipes to sanitize Kurt’s skin.

Blaine pauses then takes a moment to lean over, Kurt’s breath catching when Blaine looks at him with wide, sincere eyes and says, “Trust me, okay?” Then pushes Kurt’s shirt up to his neck and presses the stencil to the center of his chest.

Kurt nods, but all he can think about now is the way Blaine’s hands feel on his body, solid and warm and steady. How lovely Blaine’s eyes are. He doesn’t even realize Blaine had started until the first drag of the needle presses sharp to his skin.

Blaine sings quietly as he works. Of course he does. Kurt would find it obnoxiously cheerful, only Blaine has a nice voice. It’s very soothing, actually. Kurt closes his eyes and lets the endorphins from the pain cloud his mind.

“I have a confession to make.”

Kurt forces his eyes open as Blaine turns away to dip the needle into more black ink, swivels around again and etches it into Kurt’s skin.

“Hmmm?” He manages.

“I’ve been following your career for a while now. It’s why I took the temporary position here. You’re really good, Kurt.”

“I know,” Kurt says. Blaine laughs and shakes his head, hand moving in increments across Kurt’s chest. “I mean, thank you.” Kurt says, chagrined. “I’m sure you’re very talented as well.”

“A compliment, wow. I’m honored.” Blaine pulls his lip ring into his mouth, tongue licking out to smooth over and around, and Kurt seems to be completely unable to stop staring. “You better hope I am, anyway.”

Kurt looks away to blink at the ceiling, a brief moment of panic overtaking him. What if Blaine is horrible? What if he has to get some huge and gaudy cover-up done after this? What if Blaine is marking him with the Japanese symbols for tacky and boring? 

But then Blaine is setting down the gun, snapping off his gloves and scooting away. He cleans off Kurt’s skin with a damp towel and grins, “Alright, moment of truth.”

Kurt stands up, swaying and woozy for a moment before Blaine settles a hand low on his hip, then walks over to the full length mirror in the back while holding his shirt up high. Blaine bounces along behind him, his anticipation almost palpable. Kurt stops, squeezes his eyes closes, takes a breath.

“Oh,” He says, on the exhale. His hand flutters up to touch the reddened skin just under the tattoo, smiling and overwhelmed. “It’s so beautiful.”

Puck was right to hire Blaine, he’s amazing. The detailing is exquisite, particularly for a smaller piece, lines thin but clean, shading impeccable. He catches Blaine’s eye in the mirror, hand still pressed to his chest under the little black bird flying free from a gilded cage. It’s perfect.

He doesn’t understand how Blaine could have read him so well, they don’t even know each other. Kurt’s pretty sure he’s about to rectify that situation, however.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, raw honesty cracking his voice.

Blaine smiles, moves in close behind him to press his fingertips just below Kurt’s fingers and over his thundering heart to whisper in Kurt’s ear, “ _Take these broken wings and learn to fly_.”

Kurt turns and walks away on wobbly legs to tape a bandage over the fresh ink. He tries for nonchalance as he asks, “Do you want to get out of here?”

As he follows Blaine out of the shop, glaring at Puck’s wolf-whistle as they leave together, he has only one thought.

Well, two. One: he can’t can’t wait to rip that stupid beanie off Blaine’s head, and two: 

_You were only waiting for this moment to arrive._


	2. The Dead of Night

“So, my very own stalker. I really feel like I’ve made it.”

Blaine chews and swallows, pointing his chopsticks at Kurt. “I said I’ve been following your career. Not you.”

Kurt shrugs and snags the last avocado roll. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Blaine shakes his head but grins, and Kurt’s heart does a little flip under the ache and burn of his still-fresh tattoo. 

“I happened to see some of your art at a gallery. Looked you up. After that it was hard not to hear about you.”

“I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am,” Kurt says, defensive. And not for the the first time. 

Blaine says nothing, just pours sake into both of the little ceramic cups in the middle of the table, slides one to Kurt then knocks his own back, throat bobbing enticingly. “Of course you have.”

“Well, some people seem to think differently.”

“Some people are assholes.” 

“An artist and a poet. What a catch you are,” Kurt teases. He swirls the clear liquid in the cup, takes a breath and swallows it down, eyes never leaving Blaine’s over the rim.

He sets the glass down and Blaine pours out more for them both. Kurt usually sticks to a strict three-date progression of events. Casual get-to-know-you brunch. A fun, no-pressure afternoon date. Then a more intimate dinner. And then: Part four, should everything else go well.

What he does not usually do is get tipsy on sake and flirty grins over sushi at midnight with a man he just met. Does not plan out the places he wants to put his mouth on said man (jaw, neck, that lotus flower tattoo peeking out just below his collar bone.) And he certainly never takes a third shot of very strong alcohol and traces his fingers down his outstretched neck as the burn trickles down to his belly, just to watch Blaine’s tongue come out to flick over his lip piercing. 

“Your use of bird imagery-” Blaine says, at the exact same moment that Kurt blurts, “My place isn’t far from here.”

He hopes Blaine didn’t catch it. That he assumes the flush on Kurt’s skin is from the sake and spicy salmon rolls. 

He doesn’t. “Okay.”

Kurt gives a perfunctory tour of his apartment, which is really just him turning a sloppy pirouette in the center of his living room and waving a hand at the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and fire escape. And he is nothing if not a good host; offering Blaine something to drink before Blaine stalks across the room and fists Kurt’s shirt, then crashes their lips together.

“I don’t usually do this,” Kurt says, feels like he has to. He loves it, though. Loves that Blaine stepped into the shop just a few hours ago and made Kurt throw off every well-constructed caution; every carefully placed brick in his high, high wall.

“We don’t- We can just talk. I want to know you, Kurt. I mean. I want you, god. But-”

Kurt just nods, then pulls Blaine’s bottom lip into his mouth to tug and lick at the ring as Blaine’s hands flex on his chest.

“Talking, yes,” Kurt murmurs, ducks down to suck down Blaine’s neck, then lower, pushing his shirt collar aside to get at the center of the lotus flower; a bud opening to the swirling sunset behind it. Blaine’s hands skim Kurt’s shoulders, push into his hair. He swears, snugs his thigh between Kurt’s legs, just under his balls, and Kurt bites down on the sweet curve of bone under his lips.

“Jesus.” Blaine’s fingers, once again nimble on Kurt’s skin, untucking his shirt, undoing buttons. Yes, Kurt thinks, but doesn’t say. Yes, Yes. Then Blaine pauses and he taps on Kurt’s chest where the white gauze is still taped onto the center of his chest.

“You should clean this up, been over an hour.”

Kurt sighs. He just barely avoids letting out a frustrated and childish whine. But he’s given the 'aftercare is the most important part of a new tattoo' speech way too many times to argue.

“Come on,” Kurt says and leads them hand-in-hand to the bathroom, settling himself against the sink after placing a warm, wet washcloth and soap on the counter’s edge with a deliberate nod.

“Oh, I have to do it?”

“Mmm-hmm. I expect the full service.” 

“Oh you will, just- Christ, how many buttons does this thing have?” 

Kurt looks down at himself, the rows of double buttons, some functional, some purely aesthetic. It would be fun, making Blaine figure out which ones are which, he thinks, but for now has far more pressing concerns. Kurt smiles, lifts the hem and shimmies out of the shirt in an impressive, rather graceful, movement if does say so himself.

Those hands again. Kurt wants to write sonnets to those hands; set low on his hips, then up to his ribs, thumbs pausing at his nipples- an experiment. Kurt jolts and gasps and Blaine looks very, very pleased. 

Blaine slowly peels off the bandage, scrunches his nose, then tosses it in the trashcan. He cleans the dried blood and smeared ink, gentle, reverent. It’s a lot to ask; faith on Blaine’s part that Kurt is safe. Trust on Kurt’s part, that Blaine will be careful with this open weeping wound on his skin.

Blaine moves away to toss the washcloth in the hamper as Kurt searches for ointment, a half-used tube crusted over but not expired, not quite. The bathroom is tiny, New York tiny, shoebox tiny. Kurt leans back to open the mirrored cabinet, put the tube away. Blaine is right there, a flash of his face in the mirror. Kurt spends a lot of time working and thinking in color. Vibrant and bright; insinuating thoughts and feelings and heart’s desires. Yet he still has no label for the hue of Blaine’s eyes.

“Looks good,” Blaine says, the heat of his body a physical presence just behind Kurt’s.

“It’s gorgeous,” Kurt replies. He traces again, just under the bird, raised inflamed edges of it. He really does love it.

“You’re gorgeous.”

“What a line,” Kurt scoffs, the end coming out shaky as Blaine’s hands move a slow path back up his torso, his chest pressing against Kurt’s back. 

“Maybe. It’s true though.” Blaine’s fingers twist on his nipples with intent this time and Kurt takes a shuddery-sharp inhale of breath. He’s hard already, has been well on his way since the sushi bar and sake. “I knew you were talented and I figured you’d be smart. But I had no idea you’d be so fucking hot.”

Blaine’s mouth travels, searing, along his jaw and the nape of his neck, pinches and pulls as Kurt moans too loud in the closet-sized bathroom. 

Then Kurt can’t help it, he has to press the palm of his hand to ease the strain and throb of his cock.

“No,” Blaine says. He holds Kurt tight around the waist, pushes his hand away and flips open the button and zipper and yanks. Kurt sighs in stark cool relief as his cock is freed, hard and flushed and curving up.

Blaine swears again, or maybe it’s him. Kurt is somewhat past the point of coherent thought and Blaine grips him tight then starts a steady stroke. Kurt leans back, knees weak and body thrumming, needs Blaine to hold him up, needs Blaine to never stop touching him, just like that, just right, oh god.

Blaine is panting warm breath at his ear, tucks his chin over Kurt’s shoulder to watch as Kurt’s cock slips in and out of his fist, the head swelling as Blaine gives it a twist just underneath. 

“Need your- fuck. Your mouth on me.” Kurt stretches his neck to the side, hopes Blaine takes the hint. He does. It bubbles up over and over, that word. Need. Faster. More. Tighter. 

One-by-one Kurt feels those bricks guarding his heart come tumbling down. It should be scary. He has them for a reason. Had. But Blaine is so solid behind him, hips and cock rutting up against his ass, mouth sucking tender spots to his over-heated flesh. One hand firm on his belly and one steady-driving Kurt into oblivion. 

Then Blaine’s hand is gone and Kurt grips the counter and fills his lungs and drags his heavy eyes open. The clink of Blaine’s belt and hum of his zipper, the dull thunk of his pants hitting the floor. Kurt feels his own pants get shoved down his thighs and before he can register why he feels Blaine’s cock slip low between his cheeks, nudging hot and slick under his pulled-tight balls.

“Okay?” Blaine asks, hips already working, a maddening drag.

“Oh-fuck-oh-god-oh-fuck,” Kurt babbles and Blaine chuckles dark and low, then groans as Kurt tightens his thighs and ass around the thick slide of Blaine’s cock.

Blaine wraps an arm snug around him again, rocks Kurt up to his toes and back, up and back. Kurt’s head falls back to Blaine’s shoulder, up and back, up and back. As Blaine’s lips work the corner of his jaw, he grips Kurt’s cock and strips it fast. Kurt shifts and bucks, then the change in angle make Blaine’s cock slip up and nudge against his hole and Kurt comes with a burst of color behind his eyelids.

He’s still floating down when he feels the hot splash of Blaine’s come on his back and ass and he feels bad, a little. He would have finished him off. Once his heart was no longer trying to hammer out of his ribs. 

But he looks at himself in the mirror, Blaine slumped behind him against his back. He’s disheveled and disarrayed, marked by Blaine’s mouth; purple and red splotches on his neck and jaw and shoulders. Marked by the ink on his chest. The come on his back. He likes it, being marked by Blaine.

They clean themselves, the sink. Tuck each other back in with bitten-off grins and soft kisses.

“Let me ink you,” Kurt says as Blaine straightens out his shirt and Kurt does up the (functional) buttons of his.

“Matching puzzle pieces?” Blaine asks. 

Kurt snorts. “Please no. I was thinking…” He pulls Blaine in, snags the beanie off his head, pleased to see Blaine’s hair is as lovely as he’d thought but dismayed that he got so carried away he actually had sex with the stupid thing still on. “A Phoenix.”

“Perfect,” Blaine says. “But only if you cook me breakfast in the morning.”

Kurt gasps in mock indignation, crooks his finger as he walks backward across the hall to his bedroom and says, “If you want one of my decadent gourmet breakfasts you’ll have to earn it.”

Blaine’s eyes darken, he growls and reaches for Kurt before they crash to the bed together, mouths and bodies sealed together. And, truth be told, Kurt would really not be opposed to matching puzzle piece tattoos in the future. He really wouldn’t be opposed to doing a lot of things with Blaine in the future.


	3. Into the Light

The shop is finally clearing out, Puck and Santana are finishing up their last clients; the buzzing of their guns breaking up the sudden quiet as Kurt cleans up his station and packs away for the day. He feels more than hears Blaine approach and looks up to see him stretching both arms above his head and twisting to crack his back.

“That was a long one.” Kurt neatly arranges the bottles of ink according to the color spectrum, warm to cool, labels up.

“Damn portraits,” Blaine replies. He sets his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, rubbing at the dull ache that’s mostly ever-present, then leans down to press a kiss just behind his ear. 

“Hey you want to finish me up before you shut down there?”

“Sure.” 

The phoenix is mostly done, just some minor touch-ups left. Kurt’s been able to work on it here and there over the course of the last few months. Blaine yanks off his shirt, stretches out prone onto the table and tucks his hands under his head.

Kurt pulls out a vibrant red, a fiery orange, then a more muted blue. It’s been very gratifying, working on the piece until he feels satisfied with it, and Blaine has been more than happy to give his skin and body over to Kurt, content to watch him with lowered eyes and a soft smile.

But lately all Kurt can think about is that finishing the tattoo means an ending. The end of the phoenix, the end of Blaine’s temporary position, the end of them. 

The bell over the door rings: Santana’s client leaving. Kurt adds orange to the tips of the wing spread up and over the sharp bone of Blaine’s left shoulder blaine, tempers it with a just a touch of blue on the inner edge.

Puck finishes, counts out the register, shuts off the lights in the waiting area, and tosses the keys to lock up on Kurt’s desk before he and Santana exit out the back.

“I think we’re alone now,” Blaine sings, wiggling happily under Kurt’s hands. 

Kurt mmmms, gives a wince of a smile, then hunches over to draw a stark red line down a long, curling tail feather, over around Blaine’s hip and ending just to the side of the deep indentations low on his back.

“You’re quiet.”

“Just trying to finish,” Kurt replies. And this is why, this- waiting for his heart to break, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. This thing with Blaine wasn’t meant to happen, and when it did it wasn’t meant- 

He didn’t mean to fall in love.

He finishes, wipes a damp cloth over Blaine’s taut, olive skin; he tries to memorize the exact hue of it, the same way he’s been savoring its taste, the way it feels shifting under his fingers. Saving it up so he’ll have enough when Blaine is gone. He’ll never get enough. 

“Kurt, it’s- You are incredible.”

He smiles and waits as Blaine contorts himself the see the full tattoo- it takes up half of his back, shoulder to hip, the body of the creature skating alongside the notches of each vertebrae, wings curved up around the sharp blade of his shoulder, long feathers sweeping down and across his trim waist, and one that looks like it stopped to rest just above the sweet upward curve of his ass. 

It doesn’t look like a picture drawn on Blaine’s skin. It’s a part of him, curled around his body like it was always meant to be there. He’s gorgeous.

“I wasn’t sure about the blue, but you’re right. Amazing.”

Kurt clicks his tongue, “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

“Modest and talented, huh?” 

Blaine walks back over as Kurt tidies up, puts everything in it’s proper place, then reaches up to tape bandages over the few spots on Blaine’s back that he worked on. “Don’t forget handsome,” Kurt jokes, gives Blaine’s ass a smack, then grins when he squeaks and spins around.

He expects teasing, retaliation. Flirting. He does not expect the open, honest widening of Blaine’s eyes, the soft exhale before Blaine says, simply and to the point, “I love you.”

It’s been so long since someone has said that Kurt, even longer since someone meant it the way Blaine does, standing in front of Kurt just smiling, with his shirt still dangling from one hand and smiling like him loving Kurt is just a simple truth of the universe. Irrefutable. 

“I love you and- and I want to stay here,” Blaine barrels on. “Puck offered a permanent position and I should have asked you, but I said yes because. Because when I met you I finally felt like I’d found what I was looking for. Like I was home.”

The earth itself shifts beneath Kurt’s feet; he feels briefly like he’s in danger of being swallowed up by it, so he takes in a breath, holds his arms out for Blaine. 

“Oh,” Kurt says and presses his face into the yielding flesh of Blaine’s stomach.

“That’s all I get? Oh?” Blaine asks, as he brushes his fingers through Kurt’s hair.

Kurt smiles, opens his mouth and sinks his teeth into Blaine’s soft skin. 

“I’d also like to ravish you if that’s alright.”

Blaine removes his hands from Kurt’s hair, fishes out his wallet then opens it to retrieve a condom and packet of lube from the folds. “So alright.”

“You bring sex supplies to work? Why do I feel like you’ve imagined this scenario?” Kurt presses his heels down on the wheels of his chair to lock them in place.

“Like you haven’t,” Blaine retorts, and hands them over.

“Fair point,” Kurt concedes, then adds, “Pants off.”

“You know,” Blaine says as he unbuckles his belt. “I bared my soul to you and I have to say I expected a little gushing romance for it.”

Kurt opens his own pants, pushing the flaps aside then shoving his underwear down just far enough to take his cock out and stroke it slowly. “How disappointing for you.”

Blaine raises his eyebrows, gets his pants and shoes off and away then spreads his legs wide to settle over Kurt’s lap. He’s heavy and warm and Kurt feels safe; grounded by it, wants to feel Blaine’s solid body over and under and around his always. 

He’s not ready to tell him, not yet, so instead he pours it all into a desperate, searching kiss. His hands around Blaine’s jaw, his tongue slipping along Blaine’s as their mouths move together. Kurt hopes it says what he can’t.

He fumbles with the packet of lube he’d set aside, coats his fingers then reaches around to press the tips of two inside where Blaine is searing hot. Blaine moans against his lips, his cock jumps against Kurt’s stomach. He cants his body back and forth against Kurt’s fingers as they move in him.

Blaine kisses Kurt everywhere he can reach, growing sloppier and more frantic as he’s stretched open for Kurt. When Blaine arches his back, stretches his neck out long and chants, “Fuck me, fuck me, come on fuck me,” Kurt can already feel the embers burning low in his groin.

Kurt nips and licks across his chest, along the bright colors and shapes and lines inked all along it. All gorgeous pieces, but none of them quite like Kurt’s phoenix. None of them mean what his means.

Leaning back to roll on the condom, Kurt slicks himself with the rest of the lube then gets both hands under Blaine’s ass to lift him so he can nudge the head of his cock between, then in, just a bit.

Blaine holds on to the backrest behind Kurt, lowers himself down with a gust of air. 

“The phoenix. It symbolizes rebirth, right?” Kurt clenches his jaw, grips Blaine’s hips as he starts to work himself up and back down, mouth dropped open and eyes scrunched up tight. Stokes the heat building and building between them.

“Uh-huh.”

“But to me it also- god, baby just like that.” Blaine lifts up, almost all the way off, then drops back down, and Kurt’s body bucks up to meet him. 

“It means. Fire and light. Not just rising from the ashes but choosing to give in to the fire in the first place,” Kurt pants. He tucks his head into Blaine’s chest, grips his fingers tight around his thighs, the strength of him there as he fucks himself on Kurt’s cock.

Blaine shifts to capture his mouth again, pulls away to say, “Am I your fire, Kurt?”

Blaine gets it. He gets it and Kurt- He is devastated by him. “Yes.” 

Kurt gives in then, lets the flames lick up his insides, his skin and his heart, wraps his arms around Blaine and cries out into his chest as he comes. 

“Kurt. Kurt, please.” Blaine whimpers. Kurt fists him tight, strips him fast. 

“Come on baby,” He presses his mouth to the center of the lotus flower on Blaine’s shoulder and finally admits, “I love you. Love you so much.”

Blaine tips over the edge, comes and comes and kisses Kurt breathless through it all.

“I knew it,” Blaine says, draped over Kurt’s body and grinning rather obnoxiously. 

“Up,” Kurt replies. He gets rid of the condom and fixes his clothes, waits for Blaine to hop into his pants then pull his shirt on.

“I was planning on telling you. Maybe tattoo my initials on your ass, but you caught me off guard, so.”

Blaine swoops in for another smacking kiss before he slides his shoes back on. “My ass is yours, initials or no. And yours-” He grabs two handfuls just prove his point. “-is mine.”

“Smug bastard. I knew it when I met you,” Kurt sniffs. He grabs Blaine’s hand, leads him out of the shop into the warm air outside.

“And yet you love me anyway.”

Kurt smiles at him, swings their joined hands and feels happy and light and effervescent. “I really do.”


	4. Waiting

It starts to rain just as Kurt is getting out of the shower, the bathroom humid and steaming like the hot asphalt down below. He scrubs his hair dry, tosses the towel in the hamper, and watches as a cool hush bathes the city. 

It starts to pick up as he finalizes his outfit; an ascot, yes. An antique brooch, also yes. 

By the time his hair is perfectly set in place, it’s a downpour.

He picks up his phone to text Blaine for a literal raincheck on their date when the first bolt of lightning flashes across the inky clouds, lighting up the buildings and the sleek, rushing streets. A knock raps on the door.

Blaine is soaked through, hair matted down, sheepish and breathless.

“A lot to go through for a booty call.” Kurt smirks, then pushes the door open so Blaine can drag himself, wet and bedraggled, through the jamb.

Blaine presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Oh, is that what this is?”

Thunder rattles the windows as Blaine stands shivering, lip ring pulled into his mouth, curls dark and wet, his damp clothes clinging to every enticing line of his body. Everything about Blaine is heady, intoxicating. Kurt wants him, never stops wanting him. Can hardly work next to him at the shop without wanting to strip him bare, bend him over and dig his fingers into the ink Kurt marked into his skin. 

He’s a cyclone; barreled into Kurt’s life and twisted and upended everything. They flirted and fucked and fell in love and Kurt has barely had time to pat himself down to make sure everything is still accounted for.

“No,” Kurt says softly. It’s a _date_. Because they are _dating_ , a real actual date. “You should take your clothes of though.” 

Blaine’s eyebrows raise and Kurt turns on his socked heel, disappears into his bedroom to grab sweatpants and an undershirt. He returns to Blaine, naked Blaine. Naked and bemused Blaine who laughs and gives Kurt his sopping pile of clothes to be dried. 

The shirt is old and worn, one of Kurt’s favorite comfort items; long and a little loose at the waist on Blaine, but it stretches nicely across his chest with the sleeves capped tight on his biceps; a tiger inked on one, a snarling dragon on the other. 

He pulls the sweats on as Kurt clangs the dryer lid shut, then pauses with his hand pressed flat to the laundry closet door. The waistband settles low on Blaine’s hips, a sliver of skin, the enticing display of bone and muscle cutting sharply down, the very bottom of a phoenix feather visible on the curl of his hip.

Kurt is immensely proud of his self control when he asks, “Are you hungry?” Without his voice cracking or going too high or tacking _would you like to devour me?_ at the end.

“I- Yeah. I made reservations at this French place, but-” Blaine tips his head towards the window where the storm is cracking the sky outside. 

“It’s okay.”

And it is. It’s comfortable in a way Kurt doesn’t expect. He’s territorial in his kitchen, he likes things just so- knows how to keep several pots going at once and staying on top of them and doesn’t need help, but-

But Blaine moves seamlessly around him, cuts the cherry tomatoes and crumbles the goat cheese as Kurt tends to the pasta. Adds salt and grinds the pepper while Kurt tosses it all in olive oil. Kurt gets glasses down, holds the stems between two fingers as Blaine pops open a Pinot Grigio and pours them full.

“This is nice,” Kurt says as they settle cross-legged on the couch. Blaine gives him a warm smile, nudges his knee off Kurt’s and sips his wine.

They eat in silence, until Kurt can’t take it anymore and flips the TV on, then flushes hot when he realizes he’d left it paused on a repeat viewing of _Glitter_ , Mariah Carey’s wide-eyed ingénue mid dramatic break-down. 

“Sorry, I’ll just-” Kurt fumbles the remote, plate of pasta listing dangerously in his lap. He swears, jams the wrong button, then Blaine squeezes at his calf, sets his plate steady.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s finish it. I love this part.”

“You-” Kurt blinks at him. 

Blaine shrugs, “Well, it’s no _Crossroads_ , but what is really?”

Kurt kisses him, because he has to, a soft whisper of lips that tastes like sweet wine and the zing of pepper. He settles back into the couch and no longer feels awkward and bursting at the seams with too much feeling, too much desire.

The storm settles into a low thrum, just steady rain and the occasional shocks of lighting and lazy rolls of thunder. Plates and glasses set aside, an old _Top Chef_ episode on as they inch closer and closer on the couch until Blaine tucks one leg underneath himself and turns, leans in to say, “I’d like to kiss you now.”

Blaine’s lip ring is a cool contrast to his warm, soft mouth, and it’s all gentle pressure and sucking, nothing hurried. Blaine’s arms come to rest around Kurt’s shoulders, Kurt winds one of his around Blaine’s waist, holds him close while his thumb strokes back and forth on the jutting bone of Blaine’s hip.

“I’m crazy about you,” Blaine says, pulling away to rest their foreheads together. Kurt tries to open his eyes to see, but he’s too close; a watery blur. 

“Show me,” Kurt says.

On Kurt’s bed Blaine undresses him with the reverence and care of an artist. Hands sure and nimble, eyes never leaving the canvas of Kurt’s skin. Kurt spreads himself out on his back and lets him.

“What was your first one?” Blaine asks, first tracing the bird on Kurt’s chest with his fingers, then his tongue. He quickly shucks off the undershirt he borrowed as Kurt twists, lifts his arm and angles his ribs into Blaine’s line of vision. 

“I got it for my mom when I was eighteen.”

Blaine crouches over, beautiful hands spreading over Kurt’s ribcage. The tattoo is of a perfume bottle, old-fashioned and bulbous. Mostly black and gray, but with a razor-fine rainbow notching the sides of the bottle. 

It had felt like such an act of rebellion at the time, even though he’d spent months thinking and planning and worrying. He’d expected it to be meaningful, and it was. But he hadn’t anticipated how incredible it was to have his body transformed into art. To be thrilled every time he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. How he started planning his sleeve before he’d even completely healed. He really shouldn’t have been surprised, though. He has always been appreciative of beautiful things.

Kurt tells Blaine this, then settles back on the bed, appreciates Blaine’s tawny skin over the compact muscles of his chest, cradles Blaine’s body between his thighs and asks, “What was your first?”

Blaine smiles a bitten-off grin and points to the inside of his thigh. Kurt raises his eyebrows, nods pointedly. Fair is fair, after all. Blaine slips the too-loose pants off, leaning heavily on Kurt’s legs, before rising back up to his knees. “Not as well thought out as yours. Mostly did it on a whim.” 

He thumbs the classic heart-with-bloody-dagger on the inside of his thigh, fuzzy dark hair that starts sparse and grows courser and thicker up to the wiry patch that surrounds his cock: thick and veined and slowly filling. Just from Kurt. Just from looking. 

“I was young and impulsive and prone to dramatics,” Blaine shrugs, bringing his hands back to Kurt’s torso and running them up, up, across Kurt’s shoulders and down his arms to his wrists.

“So now you’re just-” Kurt’s breath hitches as Blaine brings Kurt’s left wrist up to his mouth, then leans over to pin the other one above Kurt’s head. “Old and impulsive and prone to dramatics,” Kurt teases, and Blaine turns his wrist, bites down on the fragile skin inside.

“Oh,” Kurt gasps. His hips wriggle against the bed and Blaine does it again, a stinging nip of one wrist contrasted with the dull pressure of the other. He can’t help it, groans, “I like that.”

“Mmm, I know.”

“Smug.”

Blaine winks and Kurt huffs a sigh, rolls his eyes. Undeterred, Blaine works his way down Kurt’s arm, gentle kisses followed by nips of teeth, then the soothe of his tongue-down Kurt’s forearm, the crook of his elbow, up his bicep and over his shoulder. “Tell me about this one.”

Kurt drags his eyes open, he feels heavy with arousal, like Blaine is saturating every cell in his body. “I drew it all myself. Planned it for years and-” He breathes in a lungful of air, breathes it out as a groan when Blaine moves to a nipple, sucks it between his lips then holds it in his teeth.

The sleeve feels never ending, never quite finished. He’d been nervous about allowing Puck to do it, but he was only one Kurt trusted enough at the time. From far away it’s a chaotic blend of color, but up close every piece is carefully chosen: the humming bird at his shoulder, the flowers and stars peppered throughout, the swirls and waves of blue and green and black, “ _sing for your life_ ” inscribed at the end and of course-

Blaine drags his mouth to the center of Kurt’s chest, lifts his hand to spread fingers along the music notes written on the staff that makes up the central piece of his sleeve. 

“ _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_ ,” Blaine sings, pressing Kurt’s arm like a keyboard, his voice vibrating into the cavity of Kurt’s chest.

Kurt feels his face stretch into a grin and Blaine lifts his head, taps at the piano tattoo across his own chest. Kurt makes a mental note to ask Blaine to play for him sometime. 

Blaine sits back on his haunches, stares at Kurt laid out under him, all darkened eyes and red lips and says, “I could look at you forever.”

Kurt throws his arms over his head, tips his hips up pointedly; he’s hard and aching from Blaine’s mouth on him and desperate to get it back. “You mean torture me.”

“Unintended bonus,” Blaine replies. Kurt glares at him from beneath his arm. “What do you want?” 

Blaine lifts Kurt’s hard cock, wraps one finger at a time around the shaft, slow, slow, pumps up and down just once. 

“That- that’s good,” Kurt stutters. Jesus, his hands.

“Yeah?” Blaine drags up, down, maddeningly slow. “Just this?”

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt whines, doesn’t care how pleading and high-pitched it is.

“Yes, Kurt?” He pumps once again (slow, slow) brings his other hand down to cup Kurt’s balls, rolls them gently in his fingers, slips his thumb down to rub underneath. Kurt moans, a low rumble, plants his feet on the bed and drops his knees wide. Blaine strokes up, down, up; rubs and rubs circles under, in.

Kurt’s mouth is slack around his panting breaths, his head drops to the side and he watches through parted curtains as raindrops scatter under a street light and dance through the air. Kurt feels suspended, weightless. He stretches his arms wide, lengthens his throat and gives himself over. Surrenders. Blaine caresses and whispers and pulls him to the brink; holds and waits and keeps him there.

He could stay right here. Forever. 

But then it zips through him, sudden and surprising, an electric jolt and he opens his eyes; watches Blaine watch him like it’s happening in slow-motion. The head of his cock in Blaine’s fist swells then gapes, clear dribbles of fluid before he starts shooting thick white spurts; over Blaine’s fingers, his own legs and stomach, the bed.

When Kurt returns back into himself his throat feels raw, his mouth dry, he’s tingling from toes to ears. He laughs. “I- Ah- Shit.”

Blaine holds Kurt’s eyes as he licks his hand clean, hard cock bobbing and jutting back up, looks entirely too pleased with himself. “I like you incoherent.”

Kurt growls, hooks his calf around Blaine’s waist and tips him forward. “Asshole,” he mutters, then yanks him down by the hair for a hard kiss. Blaine grins against his mouth, hitches Kurt’s leg higher so he can thrust into the space between Kurt’s hip and thigh.

“I’m crazy about you,” Kurt says. Blaine tucks his face into Kurt’s neck, pants hot against him, works his cock along Kurt’s sweat-slick skin.

“Show me,” Blaine breathes out.

Kurt flips them, pins Blaine down with both wrists in one hand and gives him a dark look that makes Blaine swallow hard.

“Oh, I intend to.”

He’s just going to take his time.


	5. Blackbird

They decide on drinks and tapas at the house Blaine grew up in. “She can’t just call them appetizers?” Blaine grumps, jabbing the screen of his phone and scowling out the window as they hit the Ohio border. But Kurt likes it, nothing wrong with adding a little flair to everyday life. Not that meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time is everyday.

It goes fine, a little stilted and awkward and too much discussion of current weather patterns, but fine. But the best part, the very best, is discovering a picture of Blaine in high school- tattooed, pierced and scruffy Blaine, his Blaine- in a private school uniform with slicked back hair.

“Do not,” Blaine warns, after giving Kurt a brief tour of his house. There aren’t a lot of personal family photos, some nice original art, some classic prints, but there it is on a bookshelf tucked in a corner with musty old magazines and books and knickknacks in Blaine’s former bedroom-turned-office.

“I think you look very handsome,” Kurt says, brushing his fingers over Blaine’s frozen slightly-cocky grin. At least that’s familiar. “Kind of like school-boy porn. But handsome nonetheless.”

“You would know.” Blaine snatches the picture, sets it back on the shelf. “You really should clear your browser history more often.”

And yep, there’s that grin. Kurt has some ideas of how to respond to that, a lot them involve asking if Blaine just so happens to have the uniform still, maybe gathering dust in a closet somewhere, and putting it to better use. But they have to get to his Dad’s house for dinner. Kurt stomach twists. Some other time.

“Why are you so nervous?” Blaine kneads into Kurt’s shoulders, breath warm behind his ear. 

“I just really wants this to go okay.” Kurt relaxes into Blaine’s touch, finds it hard to explain that the most important person to him in the entire world is about to meet the second most important and it feels a lot like jumping across a gaping ravine. 

“He’s not gonna pull out a shotgun is he? Oh god, now I’m nervous.”

“Blaine, no. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a big softie, no matter what he may try to get you to believe otherwise.” Kurt takes a decisive breath, grips the door handle.

“Like you,” Blaine says, still snugged up close behind him. “Prickly on the outside, sweet on the inside. Like a pineapple but more delicious.” 

Blaine punctuates his point with a nibble to Kurt’s ear. Kurt gives a shudder then admonishes, “Behave.”

They get along well. Maybe too well. Burt tells embarrassing stories of Kurt’s various kitchen disasters from his childhood over steak and potatoes and even how he asked for a pair of sensible heels for his third birthday. Blaine coos and pats Kurt’s hand, then when Burt leaves the room to get coffee and pie Blaine leans in and murmurs, 

“You could totally pull off heels, babe.”

Then his dad returns with pie and after the everyone is too full and the kitchen is clean they retreat to the living room to watch a game that Kurt doesn’t even pretend to pay attention to. He flips through a magazine, keeping Blaine’s profile at the edge of his vision. He can’t help but look up and watch him fondly when he starts talking about _rebuilding year_ and _recruiting strategy_ and _running game_ and not because Kurt is even remotely interested in the topic.

He just. Likes to watch him. 

And when something exciting happens his dad and Blaine cheer and high-five and whoop he feels warmth and affection spread and settle in his chest. 

“Well, this old man is heading to bed. Blaine, pleasure to meet you. Kurt, happy to have you home for a while, bud.” Burt stands, squeezes both their shoulders in turn and heads down the hall to the stairs. “And if Blaine stays the night, I’d just like to remind you Kurt that I’m a very light sleeper. Very.”

He points at them both, Kurt rolls his eyes but Blaine clears his throat and shifts slightly away from Kurt on the couch. 

“Goodnight, Dad.” Kurt grits out. Then to Blaine, “He’s kidding.”

“Right,” Blaine says, rubbing his hands on his thighs. 

“What?”

“It’s just-” Blaine’s fingers curl over his knees, one leg crossing over the other, then uncrossing again. “Am I sleeping over? Because I don’t think we’ve done that without, you know. _Other stuff_ first.”

“Other stuff like sex?”

Blaine’s eyes widen and dart up the stairs. “Kurt, shhhhh.”

“I think we can keep our hands to ourselves for one night,” Kurt says, getting off the couch then grabbing Blaine’s wrists to pull him up. 

“Maybe I can,” Blaine replies.

Kurt tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

Blaine’s mouth twitches at the corners with a smile, eyebrows raised. “Maybe.”

“Oh, you are so on.”

Kurt rushes through his nightly routine in the guest bathroom while Blaine gets their bags from the car and changes. Kurt brought his favorite silk pajamas because he always feels decadent in them, but Blaine emerges from the bathroom with minty breath and messy hair and just a pair of plaid pajama pants slung low. Really, really low; dark wiry pubic hair visible above the waistband.

“Are you-” Kurt clutches his pajamas to his chest as Blaine puts his toiletry bag and dirty clothes away, humming nonchalantly. “Sans underwear right now?”

“Hmmm? Oh. Sometimes I like a little fresh air, you know? Fly free.”

“You are such a shit.”

Blaine shrugs a shoulder, winks and climbs into bed. “Coming, dear?”

Kurt considers his pajamas, then decides to shut off the light and take off his clothes in rapid succession. He hurries to the bed while their eyes are still adjusting to the dark so Blaine won’t know, not until Kurt gets under the covers and presses close to his side. 

Blaine gives a happy sort of sigh, curls into Kurt and shuffles down to kiss along his chest, stopping at the little blackbird and leaving his warm mouth there, right at Kurt’s heart, right at the place Blaine sketched himself in permanently. 

Kurt runs a hand through Blaine’s hair and Blaine slips his palms down, down Kurt’s body, his very naked body, gives a pained groan and squeezes at his ass.

“Kurt Hummel you fight dirty,” he growls, squeezes again. “I love it.”

Kurt can feel how much Blaine loves it, his cock swelling against Kurt’s leg. Kurt fights down a rush of want, tugs on Blaine’s hair to get to his mouth. Then kisses him softly and whispers, “Goodnight.”

It takes him some time to wind down after that, though Blaine falls asleep pretty quickly and Kurt is forced to flip him to the other side of the bed. He moves a lot in his sleep; Kurt has met Blaine’s elbow or a flung out arm in the middle of an otherwise dead sleep a few too many times. 

When he finally drifts off, it’s to the thought of falling asleep next to Blaine every night, in their own place, their own bed. He hasn’t told Blaine yet, but when he goes to bed alone, he actually misses Blaine’s sleep-flailing. It’s oddly comforting.

He wakes to sunshine and tweeting birds and the totally bizarre awareness of being in his old room, but not alone. And how he spent so much time here feeling so lonely. Alone. Like he would never find-

Never find Blaine.

His throat feels tight and it is far too early to be this emotional, not without at least one cup of coffee in his system. He sits up, intending on getting a pot going before Blaine wakes. Outside his Dad’s truck rumbles to life then fades away as it heads down the street. 

“Blaine,” Kurt says, reaching out to trace the phoenix on Blaine’s back, the lines and shades and shapes Kurt could ink now with his eyes closed, he knows it so well. 

“Mmph,” Blaine grunts, rubs his face into the pillow.

“My dad left for work. We’re alone. You know what that means.”

Blaine squints an eye open. “You’re gonna make me pancakes? I like fresh whipped cream on mine.” Closes it again. “Well, hop to it.”

Kurt tsks and smacks his ass. Blaine laughs and squirms his hips down on the mattress. “You would like that,” Kurt says. Blaine turns over then, stretches his arms above his head, then his legs out flat, morning erection tenting the sheet. Kurt lowers himself over his prone body. “Mmhmm, see.”

“You came to bed naked and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’m pretty sure I spent the entire night at full mast, Kurt.”

“Someone should really help you out with that,” Kurt says, lips just at Blaine’s but not touching, not quite. Blaine leans up for a kiss, but Kurt darts away, smiling at his pout, then shimmies down Blaine’s body, taking the sheet and Blaine’s pants with him as he goes.

He stops to nip at the phoenix feather curling over Blaine’s hip, skips over his straining cock to mouth over the heart and dagger on his thigh, and finally sucks him off sweet and slow and lazy. 

It’s quiet, just Kurt’s hums around his cock, Blaine’s panting and soft whimpers. Blaine pets through his hair as Kurt widens his mouth more, relaxes his throat and takes him deep, holds him there. It’s perfect and indulgent and Kurt wonders how many mornings could start like this if they could start every one together.

Blaine’s legs come up and bracket Kurt’s head, his torso curls and his hands slip down to hold on to the sheet and he comes hot and thick down Kurt’s throat.

“Move in with me,” Blaine says, when Kurt crawls back up to kiss him and maybe rub against his belly a bit.

Instead Kurt blinks and stutters and stares. Blaine just waits.

“Yes.” He doesn’t remember saying anything about it and they haven’t really discussed it beyond a passing mention of how compatible their cleaning habits would be and Kurt just so happens to be great at cooking and Blaine at baking and that’s just convenient, but-

He wants Blaine. Everyday for the rest of his life. He’s shared his heart already, what’s living space compared to that.

“Really?” Blaine surges up, kisses Kurt once on the mouth, hard. “We can share yours or mine or get something that’s just ours and oh! I have some ideas for decorating schemes. Of course I want your input, we should decide together. We could even find a place that would let us paint murals-”

“Blaine. As much as I love to talk decorating, and I do, believe me. Maybe after we…” He nods down to his straining cock, damp at the tip and purpling with blood. 

Blaine settles back down, gives a wide grin. “C’mere.”

Kurt positions himself straddling Blaine’s chest, thrusts down into his waiting mouth and it only takes a few minutes of Blaine swallowing around him, sucking and pressing his tongue flat, tongue stud sending electric zaps of pleasure along his shaft. Just taking it, taking it so well before Kurt comes with a shudder and long, low moan.

As his heart slows and he comes back to himself, he’s overwhelmed with emotion. Being here. Seeing his dad and his dad with Blaine. How Blaine has come to mean so much to him. How he has so many things he never thought he would.

He turns to look at him, wants to tell him somehow. Blaine props his head on a fist and leans over with eyes bright and mouth quirked and says, “So about those pancakes.”

God, Kurt loves him. 

“Fine, but you’re in charge of coffee.”

“Deal.”

Kurt dresses, throws Blaine’s pants at his head. “Oh and Blaine?” Blaine hops up and follows him out of the room. “No murals.”

Blaine protests and cajoles all the way through breakfast. But Kurt just smiles and eats and kisses his cheek. Maybe he’ll give in. Eventually. They have plenty of time to decide. A lifetime, he hopes.


End file.
